


Empty Streets and Bright Lights He's Walking

by maurheti



Category: Southland
Genre: Facial Shaving, Fantasizing, M/M, Past Drug Use, People Being Bad with Feelings, Straight Razors
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-19
Updated: 2013-09-19
Packaged: 2017-12-27 00:37:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,156
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/972235
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maurheti/pseuds/maurheti
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I hope rehab did a better job on your habit than it did on your manners."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Empty Streets and Bright Lights He's Walking

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Empty streets and bright lights he's walking](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6281596) by [Eithline](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eithline/pseuds/Eithline)



> Title from The Doves' "Someday Soon"

"Wow," Ben says when John opens the front door. "You have something attacking your --" he waves his hand in front of his chin. 

John narrows his eyes slightly, his response reflexive. "Fuck you, Sherman." 

"I hope rehab did a better job on your habit than it did on your manners." Ben is looking at the doorjamb now instead of at John; there's a muscle jumping in his jaw. 

"What, you think because I'm not your training officer anymore you can start with the insults?" John tries to keep his tone light, but his timing's off. Ben looks different, older, even though it's only been three months since John last saw him. Ben looks good. John tries to ignore the familiar curl of want. It's harder to do now, without the drugs; everything feels raw. 

"I think you screwing up with the pills and making me an accessory unless I turned you in gives me every right to start with the insults." And there it is. John didn't think this was going to be fun, but the hostility in Ben's voice is still unexpected. His gaze is level, though, when he finally looks at John again.

For a moment they just stare at each other, until John realizes it's his move. He shifts his weight and holds the door open wider. Ben sighs and turns on his heels, walking back down the path toward his car. 

This is really not going the way John hoped it would. He rubs his forehead, trying to massage away the tension. It's not working. It never does. 

"Ben..." 

Ben grabs his duffel bag out of his car and comes back up the path. 

"I didn't invite you for a sleepover," and Jesus, John needs to filter himself better. Ben gives him the level gaze again. 

"You look like shit," Ben informs him as he steps past him into the house.

"What..." John rubs his forehead again. Still not working. He doesn't remember why he ever thought his conversation with Laurie would be the difficult one. Shit, even his conversation with the Brass had been easier than this. 

He closes the front door and follows Ben, who's found his way into the kitchen and is unzipping his bag. He needs to get this back on track, for fuck's sake. 

"Look, Ben, I screwed up." 

Ben snorts and throws his Dopp kit on the table. 

"And I'm sorry." 

"Sit down," Ben says. 

"Ben. Jesus. I'm trying to apologize here." 

"Sit the fuck down and shut up, John." It's the rareness of Ben swearing that gets to John even more than the tone of his voice. 

John takes a deep breath and sits. Ben pulls his straight razor out of his Dopp kit. John's seen it before; Ben has gotten an equal amount of shit and admiration at work for using it to shave with. The handle is made out of pakkawood; Ben used to have a bone-handled one, but he didn't like the way it felt in his hand. 

"Should I be worried?" John gestures at the razor, trying to break the tension.

Ben glances up at John, face impassive. "How's your back?" 

"My back's fine." John can hear himself getting defensive. 

Ben raises his eyebrows at him and unrolls a leather strop, putting it on the table next to the razor and a shaving brush. "Really."

Fuck. John takes another deep breath and tries again. "It's tender from the surgery, but the pain's mostly gone." 

"Bowl." 

John is having a hard time following along; this conversation is nothing like any of the scenarios he's been running in his head. 

"What?" 

"I need a bowl for the hot water to shave off that..." Ben waves his hand in front of his chin again.

"You're going to shave--" 

"Bowl, John." 

"You are not going to shave off my beard, what the _fuck,_ Sherman." 

And then Ben is in John's face, eyes bright and angry, his palm on John's chest to push him back into the chair. "You are going to sit here and I am going to shave off that shit on your face, and for once you are going to stop being so _fucking_ stubborn."

John blinks and shifts slightly, pushing against Ben's hand a little, testing. Ben just runs his hand up to John's shoulder and then grabs onto the back of the chair, still leaning in, and John has no idea what's happening here anymore. 

"Bowl," Ben says, and it's almost a whisper this time, anger gone. He's so close John can feel Ben's breath on his cheek. 

"Cabinet to the left of the stove," John answers, finally. His voice sounds scratchy. 

Ben nods, and slowly straightens up. He gets out one of the old red bowls Laurie bought when she and John first got married and lets the water run hot before filling it. John watches the steam rise. 

"You'd better have a beard trimmer," Ben says, putting the bowl and one of John's dish towels on the table. 

John clears his throat. "Down the hall, second door on the left. In the bathroom, under the basin." 

It's too quiet in the kitchen; John can hear himself breathing. He reaches out and runs his fingers over the razor, the shaving brush. This is not how this is supposed to go. Ben can't possibly mean to be doing what John's dick thinks he's doing. 

Ben flicks the trimmer on when he walks back into the kitchen. John eyes him warily. Ben doesn't even hesitate, just walks straight up to John and cups his chin, tilting his head to the right. John has to close his eyes for a moment; the sight of Ben with that look of flat-eyed concentration goes straight to his dick. And fuck that, he has better self-control than this. 

Except that apparently he really doesn't right now, which makes him wonder if he ever did, when it comes to Ben. Too busy dealing with his back to realize he should be more worried about what his rookie was doing to his brain. Jesus Christ. He shakes his head.

"Hold still," Ben warns. John holds still. 

A few more passes with the trimmer, and Ben turns it off. "Mug."

"Cabinet above the toaster. You going to make me coffee, too?" 

Ben doesn't even respond, just grabs a mug and reaches into his Dopp kit again. Right. Shaving soap. John finds himself mesmerized watching Ben unwrap the cake of soap and dropping it into the mug, wetting the brush and swirling it around the soap until there's a thick lather. 

Then Ben is back to focusing on John's face, hand on the back of his head to move it this way and that as he coats John's chin, cheeks, neck, the area above his mouth. The lather feels warm. Ben's hand feels warm. John barely manages to suppress a noise when Ben uses two fingers to wipe away the excess lather from John’s lips.

"Need to let the lather soften the hairs," Ben says, putting the brush down and picking up the strop and the razor, opening the latter up with a practiced flick of his wrist. He hands John the end of the strop that has a hook on it. “Hold that. Keep it taut.”

“Getting a little kinky here, Sherman.” John pulls on the hook slightly, until the leather is stretched tightly between his hand and Ben’s. When he looks up, Ben is looking right at him, smirking slightly.

“Seriously, John,” he says, “I know you've been out of commission for a while, but if holding a strop is your idea of kinky, you need to get out more.” 

And all John can do at this point is shake his head again, because this Ben, who is currently running the razor's blade up and down the strop on a slight diagonal, flipping the blade each time he reaches the end with a controlled twist of his wrist; this Ben with his confidence and his anger and that fucking smirk on his face... this Ben confuses the hell out of him. 

And makes John think about doing things that are not only against regulations but also illegal in several states, including California. 

The strop goes slack as Ben looks at the edge of the blade carefully. John swallows. Ben notices, his eyes flicking over to John briefly. He notices everything. John has trained him too well. He's not sure whether to be proud or aggravated. 

Or turned on. 

Ben tugs the strop out of John's hand and puts it back on the table. He leans in, one hand cupping the back of John's head again. Ben has really long eyelashes. They're not really blond, more like a sandy color. Wet sand, though, more brown than beige. John is focusing on the eyelashes so that he can plausible deny to himself that there's any kind of direct line arrowing down from Ben's hand to John's cock.

John looks at Ben's fingers wrapped around the half-folded razor, to see if that works better than his eyelashes. It doesn't. Ben's fingers look strong, competent, nails neatly squared except for the thumbnail, which is slightly ragged, and all John can think of is having those fingers wrapped around his cock, that thumb right underneath the head, and Jesus Christ, John is not going to come in his pants like some teenaged douche at his first peepshow. 

Ben is smirking again. This is ridiculous. John wants out of this situation, which is all sorts of fucked-up and out of line. He just wanted to apologize, address what needed to be addressed with as little emotion as possible; how did this get so out of control? When he tries to get up out of the chair, though, Ben’s hand moves from the back of his head to his chest, pushing him back again. 

“We've had this conversation, John; sit. Down.” 

This should not be turning him on even more. This should not be turning him on, period, Goddammit. He did not just go through rehab and surgery and fucking bi-weekly shrink appointments to fuck up again by... 

Ben is kicking his feet together so he can straddle John's thighs.

“What the _fuck,_ Sherman?” 

“If you keep talking I can’t guarantee there won’t be blood,” Ben says. 

John snatches his hands from his thighs only just in time for Ben’s ass to sit down in his lap. He’s heavier than John expected, solid. He feels good. This is bad. 

“This isn’t how actual barbers do it,” John manages to get out. 

“Actual barbers have barber’s chairs. And is that a complaint? It didn’t sound like a complaint.” Ben rolls his hips forward so that he just grazes John’s dick. “Doesn’t feel like a complaint.” 

John can’t help himself; his hands slide up Ben’s thighs. He’s been wanting to do this since the first time he saw Ben run. They were in the middle of a fucking pursuit, his mind should’ve been on the job, on his driving, but instead he’s thinking how strong Ben’s thighs must be, all that coiled-up power, and what those muscles would feel like straining against John’s hands as he pulls Ben onto his dick. 

This is so out of control. 

Ben grins and pulls John's skin tight with one hand and runs the blade along his cheek with the other; short strokes, a longer one down his jawbone, going with the direction of the hair. John feels like he's about to fall off the chair, vertigo making his ears ring. He closes his eyes and his grip tightens, thumbs in the crease of Ben's thighs, fingers splayed around his hips and digging into his ass. 

Ben's weight shifts slightly on John's lap as he works his way around, applies more lather, and works his way back, against the direction of growth this time, moving John's head around with small pushes of his fingers. The blade feels like it's superheated, almost uncomfortable, every stroke making his dick twitch. John's so hard he can't focus; he has to remind himself to breathe, to stay still, when what he really wants to do is shove Ben off his lap, spread him out on his kitchen table and work his fingers into him while he sucks him off, make Ben lose all of this concentrated calm so that John can stop being the only one who feels wrecked. 

"John." Ben's voice is quiet. John hears him put the razor on the table, and then Ben is wiping his face with the towel. He opens his eyes. Ben looks as wrecked as John feels. 

"Fuck," John breathes. 

"If you ever put me through anything like that shit again, I am going to slit your throat," Ben says.

John huffs out an unsteady laugh. "Does that mean you accept my apology?"

Ben shakes his head, trying to suppress a smile. "I'm thinking about it," he answers.


End file.
